Sixpence
by MissMelysse
Summary: Sing a song of sixpence. Blackbirds and Pigeons and Lore - oh my. Oneshot. CRUSHverse. (Takes place between chapters 4 & 5 of Crush III: Sostenuto).


_**Disclaimer:**_ Star Trek: The Next Generation _, canon characters, and the_ U.S.S. Enterprise _belong to CBS/Paramount. The rest is mine._

 _ **Continuity Note:**_ _This story takes place between chapters 4 and 5 of_ Crush III: Sostenuto.

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 **Sixpence**

 **March, 2369**

 **Planet of the Borg**

 _Sing a song of sixpence,_

 _A pocket full of rye,_

 _Four and twenty blackbirds_

 _Baked in a pie._

Sing a song of sixpence: the rhyme appeared in Lore's conscious brain unbidden. Probably one of the new drones was emerging from its stupor, and memories, long sublimated to the collective song, were floating to the surface.

'Four and twenty blackbirds.' The line wound its way through his head. Lore's 'birds' were more grey than black, and there were considerably more than four and twenty now. But they did sing, every one of them, a monochromatic chorus that repeated on a seemingly endless loop.

 _When the pie was open_

 _The birds began to sing –_

 _Wasn't that a dainty dish_

 _To set before the king?_

It was the oddest thing, but after nearly a year of ruling the Borg, Lore had learned that he _liked_ working with his hands. He'd scavenged a laser scalpel from one of the units that hadn't survived separation from the greater collective, and he was using it, now, to create thin strips of metal and fabric.

Not that bits of cast-off Borg armor counted as 'fabric.' The stuff was durable, sure, and came in any color you could wish for – as long as you wished for black – but he couldn't imagine it being wrapped around him forever.

Not that his own basic black was much better. But at least it gave him room to _breathe_.

Lore had never truly appreciated breathing before.

He set down the scalpel and picked up a different tool entirely, fusing the strips together within the frame he'd already constructed.

His Pigeon was going to love this piece.

She would love it, and she would hate that it had come from him.

He chuckled to himself. Pigeon would love and hate it, and his dear brother would analyze it and figure out that it was made of Borg components.

Who knew that becoming an evil overlord would turn out to be such _fun_?

 _The king was in the counting-house_

 _Counting out his money._

 _The queen was in the parlor_

 _Eating bread and honey._

From his workshop, Lore couldn't actually see the drones milling around in the Great Hall, except via the video feeds that let him monitor the entire compound, but he could step into the control room and watch them through the transparent aluminum window, or out to the balcony to watch them in person.

They really did look like a flock of blackbirds, moving in tightly organized groups, then splitting apart, regrouping into new formations, and moving together once more.

If only they were more graceful, they would be quite beautiful.

Instead, with their zombie-like shambling, the effect was more eerie than elegant.

Lore rested his hands on the metal railing that topped the balcony wall, and leaned forward. One foot was positioned slightly forward, the knee of that leg bent, while the other leg was stretched backward. He didn't _need_ the support, of course, but he liked the way even Borg were made more complacent by his seemingly casual demeanor.

 _The maid was in the garden_

 _Hanging out the clothes._

 _Along came a blackbird_

 _And snipped off her nose._

Back in his workshop, Lore surveyed his handiwork with a critical eye. He set the last shiny black bead in place, then fused the fittings onto the back – the pieces that turned his project from a sculpture to a brooch. From concept to design to construction, this piece was a creation of his mind and his hands. Now he just had to get it to his contact on the _Enterprise_ who would ensure that the Pigeon received it.

He'd wanted her to have it in time for their anniversary, but there had been other, more pressing matters to be dealt with. The new delivery date was only auspicious if one was both superstitious and cognizant of the Terran calendar: March 15th. The Ides of March.

Lore triggered the internal circuitry that would allow him to transmit an instruction to a specific Borg instead of the entire network. _Crosus, I have an off-world errand for you; a special package that must be delivered._

His right-hand man – well, he _used_ to be a man – appeared within seconds. "I await The One's instructions," he said. (Crosus had never been much good at small talk.)

Lore handed over the package, gave specific delivery instructions, and activated the transporter beam that would send the Borg to their stolen Starfleet shuttle.

Alone – but not really – once more, a line from Shakespeare ran through Lore's head: _Now let it work. Mischief, thou art afoot. Take thou what course thou wilt._

Oh, Pigeon was going to love this gift.

And his blackbirds? His blackbirds would be getting a gift of their own. Not as soon as the Ides of March, but the day was coming.

He reactivated the main transceiver, listening in on his piteous flock.

There it was again, that ghost of a rhyme:

 _Sing a song of sixpence._

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 **Notes:** The nursery rhyme "Sing a Song of Sixpence" popped into my head about three weeks ago. I'd hoped to have this ready for Halloween, but between HorrorDailies (see MissMeliss dot com) and my desperation to finish chapter four of _Crush III: Sostenuto_ , I didn't get to it until today. The line of Shakespeare Lore muses on is from _Julius Caesar._


End file.
